


A soul fractured to the bone (searching for someone who can make you whole)

by MemeKon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Awkward Sexual Situations, Barebacking, Comeplay, Doppelganger, Feral Behavior, Fingerfucking, Fluff, M/M, Make Them Do It, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Rimming, Scent Marking, Scenting, Sex Magic, Threesome - M/M/M, unintentional dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKon/pseuds/MemeKon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have to merge the two sides together, Stiles. Through mating. Sexual magic is second in power only to blood magic. And the latter one is too dangerous and volatile to be feasible.”</p><p>“They have to... With each other?” He inquires; and although hello there spank bank material for the rest of eternity, the issue still stands that “They kind of can’t tolerate each other? Or at least Other!Derek doesn’t tolerate regular Derek.”</p><p>“Oh, I see.” There’s the distinct sound of paper rustling. “That’s… less fortunate but still doable. They will need a link. A nexus to help them fix the broken bond between instinct and reason. Someone who both sides trust and have a connection with. Is there anyone who the wolf has shown a particular attachment to, Stiles? Or even someone whom he lets near it?”</p><p>There is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A soul fractured to the bone (searching for someone who can make you whole)

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, this is the first time I'm writing sex. Sorry in advance.  
> As usual, not beta'ed. Sorry for any mistakes (I'll probably come back to this one later and fix it a little.)

The noises are what wake him up. The steady thump, thump, thumps that first came from the window and then started sounding all over his room. He’d break into a cold sweat, mind going through every single maneuver his dad’s taught him on self defense if he wasn’t sure of both who it was that’d come in, and that all of those maneuvers would achieve absolutely nothing against them. 

Still, Stiles can swear that he closed the window before going to bed. He can swear he put the latch on, can even tell the exact moment he did, just after brushing his teeth and a whole two seconds before dropping his cell phone and attempting to catch it or slow down the fall with his bare foot and everything ending up in a swollen toe and too much pain.

Okay, it turns out that latches are just not werewolf-proof. Not that Stiles would've expected them to be. It just was a nice tradition, to head to bed every night and pretend that he could do this little thing and ensure his safety.

He sits up, expecting to see his trespasser lurking somewhere near his desk, waiting for him to wake up instead of just coming over and rousing him themselves like the creeper they are, but freezes for a few seconds when he makes out not one but two figures standing about on his room.

And then he notices just what one of those figures is doing and gathers himself, jumping out of the bed and standing in the middle of the room in his pajamas.

"Oh...kay. You? Stay where you are." He points at the brooding mess that is Derek, stiff and pressing his back against the wall opposite to where Stiles is sitting on his bed, just a little away from the window as if he were considering to just jump out there at any moment. "And you? You should stop sniffing my underwear. Like, now. An hour ago, now." He blurts at the guy that's currently presenting his (muscular and broad) back to him and raiding his underwear drawer, burying his nose in anything and everything he can grab. Which is so freaking disturbing that Stiles can’t even address it in proper words.

When the other guy hears Stiles' voice directed at him, he straightens, lets go of his Batman boxer briefs and turns around to look at him.

Holy Virgin Mary and Joseph and baby motherfucking Jesus.

"... Derek?"

 

"I guess you weren't kidding when you texted saying there was an emergency." He throws his cell phone over his pillow and lets himself fall onto his bed unceremoniously, limbs akimbo and eyes wider than he can ever recall them going.

"Why do you two always assume I make things up to fuck your lives up? I'm generally doing my best to save your asses." Derek asks him, arms crossed over his defined chest, nails digging crescent moons on his own skin.

"Our asses, yours included, and we help a lot in the saving process. Also, we don't assume you make things up, dude. Don't get all up in arms. But sometimes you cave to this, what d'you call it?-- This flare for the dramatics."

Derek's minute change in expression would be quite entertaining to him if they were meeting under different circumstances, but as it is, he's far more preoccupied with other!Derek, who's stopped sniffing his things like a creeper only to sit himself next to Stiles and look at him with all the primitive fixation of Tarzan.

"Well," Derek drawls, haughty, eyebrows lifting in a mocking gesture "I think I'm not being overly theatrical right now."

Other!Derek starts touching the base of Stiles' neck, covering it with his palm and rubbing circles with a surprisingly soft thumb, still absolutely enthralled.

"Oh, fuck you, man." Then he adds: “And for the record, I was sleeping with my cell phone on silent. I would’ve at least texted you back if I’d been awake. I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Derek’s raised eyebrow is frankly insulting to his integrity.

 

Other!Derek doesn't talk. He's very pre-verbal.

"I'm sorry to cast aspersions on your good if yet unknown name, but you're kinda caveman-ish."

Derek rolls his eyes, heaving something strangely akin to a long suffering sigh, and takes a few steps towards the bed.

And, well, it turns out that Other!Derek a) doesn't talk but does a whole lot of growling, grunting and other similar guttural noises, b) has the exact same Alpha powers as Derek, if the claws and fangs and red bleeding into his eyes are anything to go by, and c) is either not too fond of real Derek or feeling awfully protective of Stiles, because he sticks himself between Derek and him, hackles instantly raised when Derek tries to get more than a few feet closer to him, one hand pushing Stiles behind him roughly but harmless.

Derek's own eyes burn deep red for all of a second, but then he just frowns and steps back.

"Stiles," he starts.

"Yeah?" He answers, a little breathless behind Other!Derek's back.

"We have another problem."

 

Derek can’t shift. 

Which, fuck. 

“Man, are you completely sure?” Stiles wants to go next to Derek and poke him, maybe incite him into aggression, certainly that would do the trick and provoke the guy into wolfing out in retaliation, right?

But he can’t. Other!Derek is sitting next to Stiles on the bed, and he’s seen the way those nails of his lengthen into claws and those teeth sharpen into fangs, and well. Other!Derek does have all his werewolf mojo in perfect working condition.

Derek glares at him, back barely separated from the wall, shoulders tense and mouth set in a scowl.

“Stiles,“ He says, grim and annoyed, and okay. Just, okay.

“Okay, dude. Okay. You can’t shift. You would know. It’s your freaking body. Sorry.”

Derek hums. Other!Derek rumbles deep in his throat and nuzzles at his jaw, tickling him with his 5-o’clock shadow, making him let out the tiniest snort of laughter. 

“I think,” Derek voices, looking at them with his eyebrows furrowed tightly over his nose. “I think he might be my… feral side. My ‘wolf’.” 

Other!Derek’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, big and strong and way too rough for what Derek generally goes for in terms of physical contact (unless said contact is of the harsh variety designed to intimidate lesser beings), clumsier.

It should sound deranged, like total madness, but as Stiles stares into Other!Derek’s eager, bright eyes, he can’t help but think that it…

It makes sense?

Fuck.

“Deaton?” He asks, trying to subtly edge away from Other!Derek and merely managing to make him clutch at his shoulder even more fiercely than before, nose buried beneath his ear. 

“Okay.” Derek replies, eyes firmly stuck on Other!Derek, face pale.

That, itself, is proof enough that they are in dire, dire circumstances. 

 

God bless Deaton for doing a better job of picking up his cell phone than both Stiles and Scott do.

“I know it’s as--crazy o’clock, but we need your help. And, not to be disrespectful or anything but it would be much appreciated if you could cut through the cryptic messages and got down to it. Like really down to it.”

 

It turns out Derek’s right. 

Huh.

 

“What.” Stiles articulates, lips merely separating, tongue almost stuck in its place, dry like the desert. 

It’s not a question, Deaton’s been clear. Very fucking clear. And that’s one pun that wasn’t at all intended. In no imaginable way ever.

That ‘what’ is merely a declaration of how all of this is fucked up in a dozen different ways.

“You have to merge the two sides together, Stiles. Through mating. Sexual magic is second in power only to blood magic. And the second one is too dangerous and volatile to be feasible.”

“They have to... With each other?” He inquires; and although hello there spank bank material for the rest of eternity, the issue still stands that “They kind of can’t tolerate each other? Or at least Other!Derek doesn’t tolerate regular Derek.”

Deaton hums, and Derek is looking at him with eyes full of impotence and the lines of his body stiff with tension. He’s scarcely moved since he came here (and he’s not answering just how he accomplished that without breaking his currently human everything) they came to the realization that he’s been stripped of his powers. Stiles can’t imagine what it must feel like to lose that much all at once. How it must feel to have half of who he is torn away from him without a second’s notice.

How it must feel to not be able to hear things he would’ve easily been able to roughly a few hours before.

“Oh, I see.” There’s the distinct sound of paper rustling. “That’s… less fortunate but still doable. They will need a link. A nexus to help them fix the broken bond between instinct and reason. Someone who both sides trust and have a connection with. Is there anyone who the wolf has shown a particular attachment to, Stiles? Or even someone whom he lets near it?”

“Not really… I mean, I’m kind of the only person other than Derek that he’s interacted with yet. Scott and Isaac aren’t picking up their fu-freaking phones and Boyd and Erica are still-” He ends up whispering the last two names, trying not to look at Derek.

Boyd and Erica’s departure is still a fresh, gaping, bleeding wound. One that doesn’t need to be brought up right now, with everything else sort of falling around their ears, with Derek multiplied by two and both powerless and wildly out of control at once.

“Stiles,” Deaton sounds reluctant for the first time since he answered his phone, all ‘I’m about to go somewhere you probably won’t like’, “how does the wolf react to you? Does it let you near it?”

Stiles frowns, Other!Derek is molding himself to Stiles’ side at the moment, looking a mixture between warm, inviting and protective, only to flip sides and lock eyes with Derek across the room and bring his nose to Stiles’ shoulder in what feels like a branding, crazily possessive manner.

And like that it dawns on him.

He frees the hand that’s sort of trapped amid his and Other!Derek’s bodies and puts it harshly on Other!Derek’s face, jabbing him on the nose to push him away, and begins chanting “no, no, no, no, no, you’ve got to be kidding me, no.”

Derek’s eyebrows lower even more at his sudden frantic behavior, he pushes himself off the wall, and even though he looks sort of flushed and uncomfortable (maybe at the way Other!Derek’s trying to get back to Stiles’ side), he’s apparently more worried by whatever he sees on Stiles’ face. He takes a few steps towards the bed.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?”

Other!Derek softly bites at the fleshy part of his palm, slipping him some complementary tongue.

He gasps and in a mad scramble to get to the head of the bed and put some distance between Other!Derek and him he sort of flails and hits Other!Derek on the nose. Hard. “Oh shi—cra—dam—fu—God.” He takes his hand away quickly, starts pleading for his case to Deaton: “No, no, you really can’t be implying what you are implying.”

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Repeats Derek, with a pinched expression, coming a few tentative steps closer.

“You, again, stay there!” He commands, gesturing with a hand that shakes a little. “And—oh my God, buddy, what are you doing?”

Other!Derek is laying horizontally on the bed, lifting his tank top up to his armpits and looking at him with big soulful eyes. “Stiles?” Deaton questions, worry tingeing the word. “What is it doing?”

“He is… He-“ He doesn’t know, what he does know is that Other!Derek’s body is entirely as unjustly hot and distracting as Regular!Derek’s, if only somewhat hairy in the chest and treasure trail area whereas Derek’s always smooth-shaven (Does Derek wax? If so, how does that last? Does he do it every day? Does it hurt?), that coupled with the pathetically needy expression on his face—it’s doing things to him, kinda. “I really don’t know what he’s doing.”

“He’s showing you his belly.” Derek interrupts his descending spiral of badwrong thoughts, practically mumbling, worry fading a little in his face to give way to so much mortification that it’s a downright miracle that he isn’t trying to merge with the wall, by now.

And that wasn’t the best way to phrase that metaphor right now, Stiles.

“He’s showing me his belly.” Or what would pass as a belly in an alternative universe where Derek was less marble and more flesh.

“He’s… showing you his belly?” There’s amazement in Deaton’s words, more paper rustling underneath his words, and the sound of a pen clicking and being set to motion against it. 

“You’re writing that down?” He demands, betrayed. Then he looks at Other!Derek and starts whispering, “You! Stop that! Stop it with your—everything!”

He scoots closer to him, then, to try and tug the tank top down himself, but Other!Derek just takes hold of Stiles’ hand in both of his and drags it down his chest and towards the bush of dark hairs starting on his navel, and-- “oh my God, stop you-” He somehow manages to slap Other!Derek’s hands away.

“Stiles?” Interjects Deaton, softly, pretty unlike him, sounding like something that maybe intends to be supportive yet final, but falls way off the mark, tainted by the vet’s lingering traces of amazement. “I think it’s very clear that it has to be you.”

That is, no.

“No.” He begs, Other!Derek is looking at him with hurt eyes, shirt still up and surreptitiously making an effort to grope his thigh. Regular!Derek still has this tight, apprehensive look, although the flush adorning his cheeks is looking more and more permanent. He’s locking eyes with him, unwavering, silently demanding information.

_Oh God, I can’t do this to Derek._

“No.” He repeats, fierce, maybe a little terrified that he won’t be able to get them out of this one, but willing to try. “There must be another way.”

Derek, wolf senses or not, must feel his distress spiking towards panic, because he takes his eyes away from Stiles’ to set them on Other!Derek and acquires this resolute stance and just comes over to the bed, quietly, one step after another, until he’s almost brushing arms with Stiles and Other!Derek notices him and starts to _growl_ deep in his throat (it must hurt, Stiles thinks in a frenzy, it must hurt sounding like that with Derek’s natural timbre), sitting himself up and reaching a clawed hand towards Stiles’ chest, pressing there, demanding him to get cover behind him.

“Stiles,” Derek demands, eyes flicking between his doppelganger and him. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

Other!Derek is seconds away from lunging at a breakable Derek, and Deaton says, “I wouldn’t suggest this if it wasn’t the only available solution.”

There’s a bitter retaliation on the tip of his tongue ( _we wouldn’t know that, would we? You don’t have the best of track records when it comes to sharing vital information_ ), but Deaton goes on without letting him get a word in edgewise, “Stiles, imagine what would happen if the wolf got out on its own. Imagine what it could do with all that power and no means to reel it in, what would happen to it if got caught by hunters.” 

Stiles can picture it. Can picture all the billion scenarios in which it all goes to shit and half of Derek winds up dead at best, rendering him human for the rest of his life when he was never meant to be so. And the worst ones, where Derek’s wolf’s death takes the rest of him, and they end up in war because of Beacon Hills’ Alpha going rogue. 

Ending up dead ranks up higher than having to bone someone you don’t like in the scale of shit that’s not right. 

“Okay,” he accepts then, swallowing around a lump of guilt.

He doesn’t get to ask for any more information after his admission, since immediately after uttering the word all hell breaks loose when Derek tries to reach out for him and Other!Derek jumps towards him, fangs out, seemingly ready to rip him apart.

 

Stiles would like to lodge a complaint against his life. It’s excessively unfair that the first time Stiles gets to get this up and personal with someone it is to save their life from their doppelganger. 

It’s verging on extreme that none of it actually matters, not the way Stiles’ back is pressed against Derek’s front without an inch to spare, not the way they are both almost hyperventilating, hearts beating faster than the speed of sound (hyperboles come easier to him on dire situations, yes); definitely not the way that Other!Derek is plastering to his front, torn between trying to reach at Derek without harming Stiles and just rutting against him like a dog in heat, eyes going from murderous red when they focus on Derek to adoring whatever-ridiculous-color-it-is-that-Derek’s-stupid-eyes-are whenever they come back to him.

All that matters is that Stiles has to get them all out of this one in one piece. 

“Hey, big guy, hey. We don’t assault our other halves. It’s frowned upon. Bad. Very bad.” He thumps his hand against the guy’s chest, aiming for playful but landing somewhere between spastic and regency heroine passive aggressive. 

Other!Derek makes up his mind.

By taking Stiles’ hand in his and sucking his index and middle fingers into his mouth and swirling his tongue over and between them, coating them in thick werewolf spit, eyes fluttering closed. “Oh God, oh God, we also don’t molest underage people whom we don’t know.” He stutters, unable to move, unable to look away.

Derek stiffens behind him, hands twitching at his sides.

This is _so bad._

And because Stiles’ never been anything short of an asshole full of terrible ideas, he blurts, “Well, maybe this is an appropriate time to tell you what Deaton said.”

And, of course, because Derek’s never been anything short of a sarcastic bastard with trust issues, he grunts out, “You think so? I thought you’d try some more suicidal moves before, like I don’t know, _getting in the way of a raging werewolf?_ Oh, _wait.”_

If the circumstances were different, Stiles would tell him to go fuck himself. 

 

When he’s done explaining he finds himself having to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting out, _I don’t want you to die, you asshole._ Which shouldn’t be surprising on its own, but sorta is, because despite other things that he excels at, Stiles has never actually excelled at caring. He’s never cared for many people.

That’s what Scott does, he’s the one good at that, at caring about the world at large. Stiles is the selfish dick that cares zealously about a handful of people (or a couple of handfuls at the very best), that’d get his hands dirty for them without thinking much like a morally dubious vigilante, and everyone else can kindly fuck off. 

So if he were a better person, it wouldn’t be surprising. But it is, because somehow Derek’s made it into his handful of people he cares about.

When. How.

_Why?_

 

Other!Derek hasn’t backed off an inch, still plastering both him and Derek against a wall. He’s let Stiles’ hand free, but he is curled into the nook between Stiles’ shoulder and neck, breathing deep, and there’s a hard, hot length pressing against his thigh.

Well, at least he seems to be on board with all of this.

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice resounds all against his body; they’re pressed so close, he can feel the minute shifts in muscles, the motion of Derek’s body when he inhales and exhales, the—“Stiles, you’re panicking. It’s okay. It’s okay”

And then Derek’s hand is tangling with his, and Stiles realizes that hey, he’s _panicking. He’s been panicking since he got off the phone with Deaton._

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you are sorry.” Derek bosses, hand tightening around his. “Don’t say you’re sorry for things you have no power over.”

And that’s so _rich_ coming from a guy that’s living a _perpetual guilt trip--_

“Stiles,” he sounds softer now, “Stiles, it’s okay. Just keep breathing.”

 

It takes him a few minutes to come down, and when he does, Derek’s hand is still holding his, and Other!Derek is doing his very best to engulf him between his arms, nose buried now on his hair, letting out these punched out noises, like Stiles is hurting him.

He can’t help but put his free hand on the guy’s head, letting it rest there.

Derek squeezes his hand.

“Stiles?” 

Stiles nods, knows what Derek is getting at.

“Hey, buddy, it’s time to get off us, now.” He tugs gently at the guy’s hair, locking eyes with him. 

Surprisingly, the guy does let up, though he keeps shooting heated glares at Derek, who’s walking towards the bed and shooting suspicious looks at the guy, himself.

That’s most likely still not good enough, so…

“Here,” he walks over to Derek, takes his hand and places it on his own cheek, nuzzles into it (and this day is officially going down in history as the single most awkward day in the entirety of his life. He doesn’t need to live the rest of it to know that nothing is ever gonna top it), then extends his other hand in the direction of Other!Derek, whose eyebrows are furrowed almost petulantly, but still reaches forward to hold hands with Stiles. Stiles takes Other!Derek’s hand too, and does exactly the same, puts it on his cheek, nuzzles it. Lets it rest there, like Derek’s one is doing on his other cheek. “See?”

He doesn’t actually know that well what he intends to accomplish, he’s going on a hunch, but he knows that whatever it is he’s looking for, he is getting it, because Other!Derek’s face is opening up, eyes roaming over Derek’s face and going kinder, almost relaxed. After a while, he nods emphatically.

Good. 

 

And then for the most awkward portion of the most awkward day:

“How do we do this?” Derek asks, cheeks reddening. 

Stiles fidgets, thigh touching with Derek’s on one side, and Other!Derek’s on the other, fingers combing through the latter’s hair to his rumbling satisfaction.

“Don’t look at me, dude, I’m as virginal as they come.”

Derek groans, putting his head on his hands.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, God, Stiles, _shut up._ ”

 

Surprising absolutely no one the one who gets the ball rolling is Other!Derek.

By non too surreptitiously reaching out to cup Stiles’ dick over his pajama pants. 

And all of a sudden it’s like someone turns a switch.

“Oh… kay? We could go with that.” He croaks around a moan, his hand freezing on Other!Derek’s head while the other one sort of knocks around until he finds himself grabbing Derek’s thigh.

Derek clears his throat, lets out a choked “We could, yeah.” And oh-so-awkwardly puts one of his hands on the inside of Stiles’ thigh, gaze dropping to where Other!Derek’s rubbing his dick purposefully towards full hardness, knocking his head a little until he has space to start brushing uncoordinated wet kisses on his neck.

Stiles catches a glimpse of dark red eyes peering up at him from under Other!Derek’s criminally long eyelashes and he can’t hold on a whimper.

“That’s so hot.” He blurts out, because mind-to-mouth filters have been temporarily deactivated by his brain’s tragic sex-related melt down. 

“Really?” Derek wonders, and Stiles has to look at him, because suddenly he sounds sort of deep and growly and all his blood’s rushing south and- “Are you really turned on by knowing he could tear you apart?”

Derek’s looking at him with an intense fixation; he looks at Stiles like that sometimes, like he wants to crack Stiles, to get to the core of him, to get to see how he works, what makes him the way he is; it always sticks with him, that intensity. But right now, with Derek’s hand crawling up towards his junk, and Other!Derek’s hand already there, making him squirm, it’s too much.

It’s even worse when Derek sort of smirks and lets his eyes go red for all of a second (which he guesses is all he can do, right now). It makes his dick twitch, makes it leak.

“Dude, that’s so unfair.”

Derek’s smirk melts into something very close to a smile, a relieved one, Stiles could even say. But what Derek’s got to be relieved about, Stiles has absolute no idea. Or time to think about.

“I’ll show you unfair” He says then, terribly corny and making Stiles want to roll his eyes at him.

But then he’s turning around a little and grounding him in place with that intense look, his hand bypassing the bulge of his dick and going straight for the waistband of his pants, sneaking two fingers inside and using them to drag the fabric of said pants and the boxer briefs underneath down inch by inch until Other!Derek gets the message and helps him finish exposing Stiles’ dick to the room at large.

He wants to say warn a guy, but the words stick against his tongue and get all jumbled when Derek’s fingers brush softly against the glistening head of his cock. His nails scratch softly against the slit, making him moan as a fat drop of pre-come slides against the tip of Derek’s fingers.

After that, he nearly goes catatonic by the feeling of Other!Derek squeezing his dick with no layers between them, hand spit slick and jerking him off leisurely, sighing now and then with his mouth shoved open on his neck, tongue peeking out to lick a random patch of skin whenever Stiles squirms.

 _Unf_ air, indeed. 

 

Stiles loses track of time then, or time distorts itself into something else, because one second there’s an incredible amount of touching going on where all participants are sitting uncomfortably next to each other, and the next, events start blurring together until there are three naked bodies occupying his (way unsuitable for a threesome, lest of all one involving two buffer than buff dudes) narrow bed. 

Derek’s got his back against the bed, sitting with his legs open and Stiles kneeling between them curled in on himself, perching his head against Derek’s broad, darker shoulder as he grabs tentatively at his uncut cock, thicker and heavier than Stiles’ own, flushed and hot on his hand. The position puts some strain on his muscles, but Derek’s own hand is jerking Stiles off, in the same maddening pace that his doppelganger before him. His other hand is on the back of Stiles’ head, feather light, as if he’s not at all sure he should be doing that. And the pleasure is more from having someone other than him touching his dick like that, touching any part of him like that at all, is more than enough to forget about his sore muscles.

Then there’s Other!Derek, who’s mostly covering the entire expansion of Stiles’ back, bracketing him, warmer than Derek is at the moment, almost too warm. It’s making Stiles sweat everywhere; he can feel it on his neck, on his tailbone, right between his legs. Other!Derek seems to notice too, trailing his tongue over every place he can get to, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, cock bobbing and rubbing against Stiles’ back, getting him sticky everywhere with pre-come.

“Is that okay?” Derek asks, hand slowing to a stop on his dick, Stiles can feel him nodding towards where Other!Derek is.

“Is what okay?” He asks, voice wavering when Other!Derek twirls his tongue over one of the moles he knows he has on his shoulder before biting at it, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to leave a mark on Stiles’ skin. It’s either accumulated stress or a miracle that he hasn’t come all over both Derek’s hand and himself yet, really. 

“That. He is marking you up basically everywhere, you are gonna be covered in bruises tomorrow.”

“Oh, that.” He sighs, lifting his head from Derek’s shoulder with Derek’s hand still resting gingerly on the back of it, turning his face a little to catch sight of the place where there are still subtle indentations. “I guess it’s fine? I don’t think anyone is going to be seeing me naked anytime soon. Besides, I don’t know, I think it’s pretty hot.”

Derek groans, dick practically drooling over Stiles’ hand, guides Stiles’ head until their faces are aligned, and before he knows what’s going on, they are kissing. Filthy, full of tongue and incredibly wet. For all that Stiles’ kissed a few people previously; it’s never been like this, heady and desperate. 

Other!Derek makes a pleased rumbling sound that settles on Stiles’ sternum, makes his skin feel tight and too hot; takes one of his big, impossibly velvety hands and puts it on his lower back, pushing brusquely until Stiles has to break the kiss and change positions to avoid breaking his nose by bumping it against Derek’s abs.

“Maybe we should lie down.” He says, sounding wrecked. He tries to focus on anything other than what left him in this state, batting Derek’s hand away from his junk to keep from blowing his load just for kissing Derek.

“We should.” Derek agrees, sounding exactly like him, and when Stiles looks at him his eyes are blown to hell, pupils dilated so much that the only color he can identify in them is black.

Other!Derek’s hand pushes again, the other one sneaking around Stiles to cup his dick. He whimpers, nibbling at Stiles’ neck.

“We’re going, we’re going.”

 

Stiles should’ve seen this one coming a mile ago. 

As soon as they’re all set up again (Stiles sort of lying above Derek, riding one of his thighs shamelessly, while he holds gently onto Stiles’ waist, undulating his body at regular intervals with a grace that Stiles would envy if it weren’t gutting him, making him breathe harder and harder with each passing second), Other!Derek palms frantically at Stiles’ ass, massaging his cheeks for a few seconds before parting them, and—

“Oh God.” 

\--getting his mouth all over Stiles’ hole, licking over it with the flat of his tongue, circling it, slobbering all over it, making it wet with his hot spit.

Stiles comes all over Derek’s thigh, letting out a litany of curses and blessings and things that might not be words at all. 

It’s way less embarrassing than it could’ve been.

Other!Derek doesn’t stop, even though Stiles’ gone lax, pliant. He keeps going and going, flicking his tongue this way and that, making hoarse noises that are valiantly trying to get through to his spent dick. Stiles could cry from how painfully pleasurable it is. Could sob onto Derek’s chest (Derek, who’s skimming one of his hands over Stiles’ arm, almost soothing, yet is still undulating against his body as if he couldn’t help it) At one point the guy takes one of his hands from Stiles’ ass and Stiles starts hearing the smacking sounds of skin on skin, starts feeling his frenzied motions as he works himself towards his own orgasm. 

When his movements start getting jerky, he buries his face completely between Stiles’ cheeks, inhales deeply, makes his tongue press and press and press at the tight ring of muscle until it’s inside, tasting the deepest part of Stiles like it’s a treat, hungry like a man that’s been starved for years, giving his ass the filthiest kiss down there. He fucks Stiles with his tongue fast and dirty and unnervingly steady for someone who’s shown himself to be about as coordinated as a small child, and Stiles is pretty sure that his nails are going to leave some impressive angry, red scars on Derek’s chest, if the raised welts there are anything to go by.

Other!Derek takes his tongue out of Stiles’ hole and bites on one of his cheeks, hard enough to make Stiles cry out, drooling on Derek’s chest, tongue peaking out of his mouth and catching one of his nipples. 

Next, all Stiles can feel is Other!Derek’s come landing on him; can feel drops of it on his back, sliding through the crack of his ass, over his gaping opening, down towards his balls, sticking to his pubic hairs. 

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, honestly.

 

Derek’s still hard.

“You’re still hard.” He says as Other!Derek nuzzles his hairline, plastered beside him, humming happily.

“I’m aware.” Derek grunts.

“We should do something about that. We don’t know if this will work, otherwise.” He muses, afterward he adds, almost as a reflection, “you could fuck me. I’ve fingered myself a few times, I could totally take it.”

Derek _moans._

 

Stiles has been into fingering since the first time he tried, is the thing. He’s been known to come from just that, once or twice. 

Having someone else doing it to him, turns out, is a whole ‘nother ball game. He is on his hands and knees for Derek, and Derek’s lube-coated fingers are different in length and width, and he is relentless in using them. He curls them until he finds that sweet, ache-y spot inside and hits it again and again and again, hard until Stiles is throbbing, legs shaking like they won’t support him much longer.

Other!Derek’s eyes are red again, from where he’s stretched out besides Stiles. He reaches one hand towards Stiles’ mouth and caresses his lips with purpose, plays with them until they feel tingly, then he shoves two of his fingers in.

The visual dissonance of having the same set of fingers crammed into two very different places at once makes his head spin.

“Breathe.” Derek reminds him, thrusting his fingers at a particularly good angle.

Other!Derek incorporates, resting his body’s weight on one of his elbows; he takes his fingers away, replacing them with his tongue. He licks into Stiles’ mouth without any finesse, in a kiss that is only so in the loosest of definitions. He coaxes Stiles’ tongue into a clumsy, mock battle for dominance. 

Derek’s hand smoothes over his back. 

“Like that.” He says, hoarsely, working a third finger inside.

Stiles gasps, feeling the burning stretch inside him, the way it is too much and not enough all at once.

“Derek, please, please just fuck me already. Please.” He begs, shameless. He’s above and beyond shame, right now. He’s seventeen, horny as fuck, and though he’s filled to the brim (to the point where he might burst open at the seams), he feels _empty._

“You sure?” Derek asks, fingers still knuckle deep into Stiles.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, Derek please, if you don’t fuck me now I’ll die.” He whines, sinking onto his forearms, exposing his ass even more.

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“Oh, fuck you, _fuck you,_ I’m not bantering with you right now.” 

Derek _chuckles._ He takes his fingers out, leaving a cold, vacant sensation on him. It’s unsettling.

Other!Derek runs a hand through his shoulders, weaves it into his hair. It helps.

He can hear Derek uncapping the lube, pouring it onto his dick, spreading it there, capping the lube again.

For all that Derek says it’s not likely for him to die right now, it sure feels like anticipation is gonna kill him.

Derek aligns his cock with his stretched hole, head applying the barest of pressures. Stiles may push back in the greediest way, all but mewling. 

Derek grabs his hips, shushes him, starts sinking inside.

It hurts. Oh man, does it hurt.

But it’s the kind of hurt that one craves, the one that people chase. The kind of pain that people don't want to relieve, but relive. Like obsessively touching a vicious hickey.

Derek gives him more than enough time to accommodate to him, taking his sweet time until he bottoms out.

When he does, Stiles stops breathing, stops moving, _stops._

“Oh God, oh God, Oh God. _Derek;_ Derek, _move._ ”

Derek does, goes almost all the way out and thrusts in. Stiles cries out, seeks the hand that Other!Derek has on him, bites it. 

From that, Derek works himself into a punishing rhythm, deep and fast. He lowers himself onto Stiles, covering him like a blanket, and mouths at the spots on his shoulder that hurt in brilliant sparks from Other!Derek’s ministrations. 

Other!Derek wiggles next to him until he can get a hand on Stiles’ dick. He pumps three or four times and Stiles is gone, squeezing around Derek, staining his sheets and Other!Derek’s hand. The guy looks pleased at it, however. He also looks positively hungry, predatory. He licks his hand clean greedily, fangs peeking out from his mouth, eyes dark red.

“You are so tight.” Derek grunts out, hips stuttering. “So warm.”

He lasts a few erratic thrusts more, going deeper and deeper.

“Stiles, I’m gonna—can I?”

“Yes. Yes to everything.” He mumbles.

Derek comes inside him, shortly before collapsing on him. 

“Thank god for infallible werewolf immune systems.”

“Stiles, shut up.”

 

A while later, Other!Derek starts getting antsy. Handsy, too. He tries to stick his fingers inside Stiles’ ass, but Stiles is a little sore and doesn’t know how well he’ll handle a second go.

Derek looks like he’s about to intervene, and for all that they’ve gotten on remarkably well for the last few hours, Stiles is not sure that won’t blow up on their faces. 

“Look,” he takes Other!Derek’s hand and pushes it aside; he moves around until he is between Other!Derek’s legs. “Let’s do this instead, okay?”

He gets the tip of Other!Derek’s dick into his mouth, then he licks the underside of it; afterwards, feeling adventurous, he tries to deepthroat him, choking on his own spit.

One of Other!Derek’s hands flies to his head, cradling it. He looks up at him through his eyelashes. 

He catches sight of Derek. If the wrecked look on Other!Derek’s face weren’t enough confirmation that Stiles is doing alright, Derek’s undone face would be. 

His jaw is numb by the time Other!Derek climaxes in thick spurts with only a series of inarticulate groans and similar guttural exclamations as a warning. Stiles swallows most of it. 

 

The three of them fall asleep after that, sticky, and messy and over heated. 

 

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, there’s only one Derek. 

And he is currently looking at Stiles.

Which is creepy, but not unusual.

Still, Stiles doesn’t care because _it worked._

“It worked.” He does a mini horizontal victory dance.

Derek nods once, gaze still firmly placed on him.

“Thank God.” he says when he’s done celebrating, around a yawn. “Because I’m so not ready for a repeat performance yet.” 

Derek doesn’t look amused. Stiles sighs.

“Look, dude, whatever you’re thinking, stop it.” He orders, rolling his shoulders. “You said it yourself last night, there’s no need to apologize for things you have no power over. Take your own advice for—” 

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “I’m not sorry. That’s the problem.”

“Oh.” Stiles says, shocked. 

“Yeah, oh.” Derek takes his eyes away from him and starts focusing on the ceiling. “You weren’t the only person my wolf saw. He ran away from Isaac.”

“That’s—”

“It sought you,” he goes on. “That’s why we ended up here in the first place. And although at first I didn’t get why, later on I just, I just knew. Why he was here. Why part of me wanted to be here.” He’s letting all the words out at once, as if now that the door’s been opened everything just wanted to get away. Or as if fearing that if he didn’t use the words quick enough they’d vanish. “I’m really good at ignoring what I need, at ignoring my instincts.”

“No shit.” Stiles breaks in, because even if you can’t come to trust anything else in the world ever again, you can always trust in Stiles’ assholish tendencies (more so when they’re trying to drown serious happenings).

Derek glares at him.

“Okay, I’m shutting up, sorry.”

“Good.” Derek says. It takes him a few seconds to get back on track, and Stiles shoots him a sincerely apologetic smile, reaching out his hand towards the guy’s shoulder to pat it. “What I need— You’re loyal. That’s something I need. And I need someone who understands when there’s a tough call, someone who understands when there needs to be a sacrifice but is level headed about it.”

“Wow, that’s—” He clears his throat. “That’s a real compliment there.”

“That’s my ‘wolf’.” Derek clarifies, then. Locks his eyes back on Stiles’. “Then there’s me.”

“You?” Stiles croaks out, not certain where this is heading.

“Yes. You bring out the brat in me. The petty younger brother, the anal retentive jackass that can’t help himself even when he’s clearly being set up. You… You make me playful like I haven’t been in a long time. You remind me of my humanity. Of the practical, everyday side of it.” 

“You rehearsed this speech, right?”

”Maybe, I don’t sleep much.” After a few seconds, he adds: “and I’m not eager to repeat the being torn in half experience.”

Stiles smiles.

After that he’s quiet for a few minutes, just lying companionable next to Derek. 

“Well,” he begins in a somewhat rasping tone that he coughs away none too smoothly. “I haven’t had time to prepare a speech, but. I don’t want you to die? I’d even go as far as saying that I’m strangely invested on keeping you alive. And you know I’m enough of a jerk to not actually give a damn whether most people live or die.” He lets that sink in. “Also, for some reason or the other, I have fun with you, on the few moments where we’re not facing imminent death. That doesn’t happen to me often, either.”

Derek smirks.

“That’s because you’re an asshole and prefer to have fun at people’s expenses.”

“Yeah,” Stiles has to agree, smiling a bit. “But so do you, Mr. I-only-wear-leather-and-dry-wit.”

“I don’t wear only leather.”

“That wasn’t the important part of the— oh, _fuck you._ ”

Derek smiles.

Stiles’ breath catches on his chest.

“Also,” he says then, turning to face Derek. “It feels like somebody’s crushing my heart whenever you smile, as rarely as that happens. In a good way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> And this is why I don't write porn.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come hang out with me on Tumblr!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


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